When I met Solana, I was 22, and my recent exodus from the undergraduate world of academia had made me a little crazy. I was feeling like a piece of string in the wind, content not to catch on anything, satisfied with a long-delayed landing. I decided my English Literature degree was useless and I would, like many a young bon-vivant wannabe, install myself in Indonesia and earn my yoga teaching certificate.
The particulars of my meeting with Solana are now lost to me, which feels very ironic, given that no other woman has had quite as profound an impact as she. All I can remember is that suddenly we were attached at the hip. It was like we had been best friends all our lives. We walked to class every day together, we sat next to each other at lunch, we asked our assigned roommates if we could switch so we could have sleepovers. We laughed at all the same things. We laughed that real rare laugh, the deep rib shaking one that makes your abdomen hurt a little. We laughed so much we could not breathe or walk straight. We ran barefoot over the big rocks and sang little ditties that the other one would finish. She was perfect. I was perfect. I had not imagined I would get the chance to meet someone like her.
One day we were instructed to pair up for a meditation. Our mats were side by side, so naturally, we turned to face each other and begin. The meditation consisted of nothing more than silently looking at your partner in the eyes for ten minutes. It is still one of the most intimate things I have ever done. When I think back to this time in my life, everything is tinged with the image and sensation of sitting there looking at her. I think back to the other men I met around the same time, that I had loved or been hurt by, and they are like moldy and discarded casts from bones I forgot I broke. And yet, when I conjure her face, it is as if the stitches were ripped out yesterday.
We were outside in a wooden pavilion surrounded by a vast expanse of rice fields. It was dusk and the sun was setting. The sky was lightly streaked with soft pink and purple hues. Smoke was wafting up from the field where men had burned rice straw for clearing. Her golden brown skin shone against the velvet green of the fields. The evening wind blew a small piece of dark hair across her face, where a tear had alighted from her brown eyes. I could feel myself slipping away from the moment, where I would be condemned to inhabit it as a memory. I sensed that I would carry it forever and still never understand it. We walked back to our rooms in silence. Our bare feet knew the contours of that Earth so well that the darkness did not hinder our steps.
During the next few days we had some free time and decided to cash in on the massages the yoga school had gifted us. Everyone else seemed to have this idea too. There were not enough rooms for everyone. We could wait for a private room in the next few days or get a couples massage today. It was settled quickly. A woman showed us to our room where we disrobed and readied ourselves. Afterwards, we took a shower to rinse off all the sticky oil goo. Solana had no qualms about being naked. I usually did not either. I was trying to be normal but I could not keep myself from taking her in. She closed her eyes to wash her hair, and I was suddenly and irrevocably moved by her vagina. The small and iridescent bubbles rolled down her body in silk rivers, finally depositing around the drain. I was transfixed by the way her hand curved around her back, her knees, the part where her shoulders became her neck. I continued rinsing myself, trying to concentrate on my own movements. We got out and toweled off.
The next few days were some of the last of the program. A hum of excitement was buzzing through the air as we prepared to have our "examination" in which we would lead a yoga class. Solana and I spent all of our free days together. We roamed the streets, eating nasi goreng and chicken skewers. We laughed at the hyperbolic expressions and colors in the Indonesian cartoons. We took a bus to one of the surrounding towns for a day trip and Solana got her first tattoo. I held her hand while they stuck the needle in and drew a barely-there squiggle to mark where her heart chakra would be. I remember watching the tattoo artist as he drew on her in purple ink, as he primed her skin and asked if she was ready. When she got up to look at the flower in the mirror after he had finished, she asked me what I thought. I felt like I had been let in on some secret pact. I wanted to be with her for every tattoo. I wanted to leave some impression in her in my own way.
When we left the tattoo studio we sat outside before it started to rain. There was a group of men grilling chicken on a coal fire grill. The aroma had attracted a stray dog and he sat down near us. A very specific feeling of girlhood suddenly overtook us and we began to sing to him, inventing both name and a history, cataloguing his misadventures in the late April air. There are few other circumstances that make me feel so connected to a girl than when I am singing badly with her in public.
During the last few days of our program, we had a traditional Indonesian dinner together as a group. Lush servings of aromatic noodles and vegetables came to us served in salam (leaf) plates. There were many courses with ingredients and textures I had never tried. I sat across from Solana, beside some of the other friends I had met there. We ate and ate and had a magnificent time. On the walk home, I used the last photo on my disposable camera to take a picture with Solana on the street. We returned home and slept like babies. In a day or two, we would all be on our way back to our respective corners of Earth.
As we said our goodbyes, Solana told me that I should come visit her. I told her I would love nothing more. We promised to keep in touch and tell each other about everything. I told her I would miss her so much I didn't know what I would do. She knew I meant it.
About a month after the course ended, I began my voyage back home. I had a few days layover in Turkey, where I wandered aimlessly around Sultanahmet and pet all the cats and drank many cups of tea. I drifted around in a warm and happy daze and met a strange and handsome older man with tattoos like a sailor. We walked all around the city talking about Rumi and Stevenson, and then he bought us some beers. When I called Solana to tell her about him, she never picked up. She stopped replying to the messages I had sent her. Just a few days ago she had sent me pictures of home, and now she had vanished into thin air. I checked her youtube. She was posting and seemed perfectly fine.
Over the next few days I became bewildered and semi-hysteric. I tried incessantly to reach her. You only think you have known obsession until you have been obsessed with a woman. I was beyond confused. I messaged her and said sorry, for what, I wasn't sure. For months after, I sent her messages on every platform I could. I called her every two months, to no answer. When I finally got the photos from my disposable camera developed, the last one we had taken together was dark and obscured.
Now two years have passed. I have arrived at a romanticization necessary for the calibre of such a mystery, but I can't help wondering if she ever thinks about me. I still think about her all the time.
